


the other philippe

by thinkofaugust



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, First Meeting, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-show, the chevalier is bolder than he should be, which is rich coming from philippe wearing a dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 12:44:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11402658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkofaugust/pseuds/thinkofaugust
Summary: '"You can’t sit on the sidelines your entire life, you know." It takes a few moments for Philippe to identify where the voice comes from, but once he does, he cannot bring himself to look away.' : written to fill an anonymous tumblr prompt.1658. A young Philippe and a young Chevalier meet at a party for the first time. Flirting, dancing, and potential romance ensues. The origins of Versailles greatest power-couple. (marked as under-aged, just in case two kisses needs that.)





	the other philippe

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a drabble for a tumblr prompt, but it got a little out of hand. It's the first time I've written pure fluff in a long time and is basically an excuse to make these two flirt.
> 
> 1658 was quite a year for Philippe. It was also the year he met and started a relationship with the Chevalier. Historically, Philippe is 19 here, the Chevalier is 15. I tagged this with underaged, just in case, even though 15 is past the age of consent in this period. Nevertheless, I kept everything light and PG, just in case. (even if I doubt real like Monchevy did anything of the sort.)
> 
> Enjoy x

‘You can’t sit on the sidelines your entire life, you know.’

It takes a few moments for Philippe to identify where the voice comes from, but once he does, he cannot bring himself to look away. He racks his brain for a name, then realises he doesn’t know this man. Not yet anyway. The very fact that a stranger dared to address the brother of the King so informally startles Philippe for a moment but he is so enraptured by the stranger’s appearance that he quickly forgets about anything else. 

The stranger is wearing a dark shade of blue Philippe would think was atrocious if it didn't complement the stranger’s eyes perfectly. He’s tall. Slender. Blond hair cascading past his shoulders. Poets would have called him charming, painters might have preferred angelic. They always use that word for fair-haired youths, Philippe thinks, and the stranger is no exception. 

Suddenly aware that he’s staring, Philippe clears his throat and rewards the stranger’s informality with bluntness. ‘Well, I’d hardly say I’m sitting on the sidelines,’ he says, glancing down at his own attire, ‘haven’t you noticed that I’m the talk of the room yet?’

The stranger looks him up and down a few times, expression neutral. It’s pointless. Philippe already knows that he’s right. His mother’s ladies-in-waiting had given him the strangest look when he’d asked – ordered – them to help him into the light silver dress and do his hair as they would have done his mother’s, but they hadn’t been able to refuse him. One does not refuse the brother of the King. Not unless one is the King himself. But that doesn’t stop the nobles from gossiping. Even now, he can hear the hushed whispers travelling around the crowd of people. Have you seen?! The King’s brother. In a dress. Like a lady. Well, I never! What madness!

This is a celebration, and he, it seems, is the entertainment.

Philippe smooths a hand over his bodice, subconsciously studying the stranger’s face for a hint of mockery.

There isn’t one. Instead, he waves a hand dismissively and says, ‘they’re no better than a hoard of gossiping fishwives, the whole lot of them. The men included! Are their little lives really so dull that a handsome man in a beautiful gown is the height of scandal? Hmm, they really must get out more!’

Surprised, he laughs a little awkwardly. Handsome. Beautiful. The words make his heart skip a beat. ‘You may be right.’

‘I’m always right,’ he smiles brightly and extends a hand, ‘the Chevalier de Lorraine, at your service.’

Philippe takes his hand, pressing his fingers lightly. He lingers for a few seconds longer than proprietary suggests, secretly enjoying the coolness of the other man’s touch and the softness of his skin, but the Chevalier doesn’t seem to mind. ‘A pleasure.’

‘I hope it will be.’

That awkward laugh emerges again. Philippe cringes internally and tests a smile, ‘I’m…’

‘I know. The Duc de Anjou. The King’s brother. Philippe,’ his smile broadens, ‘I’m the other Philippe.’

‘You, uh, you’re perceptive, aren’t you? The Oher Philippe?’ he asks, arching an eyebrow, ‘know everyone, know everything that’s going on?’

‘Only when it matters.’

‘And does it matter now?’

He tilts his head to one side and gestures to the seat next to Philippe, ‘may I?’

Philippe shrugs.

He sits, then sighs dramatically, ‘parties like this can be awfully tiresome, don’t you think? No one’s doing anything. Oh, yes, they’re drinking and dancing and having a lovely time, but no one is doing any of it. No one’s engaging, daring, pushing the rules that little bit further.’

‘I think they’re all afraid of looking the fool.’ Philippe says.

It’s true though. Louis’s little get-together is all very charming and the invited nobility certainly seem to be enjoying themselves, but it is more reserved than Philippe had imagined Louis’s parties would be. Even the King himself looks a little subdued, something Louis will not be pleased about come morning. That much is clear from his frown. Philippe supposes that’s his mother’s doing. Card games, dancing and moderate amounts of alcohol are sensible past-times. All Mama approved. Philippe’s costume, however, is not. Ironic, he thinks, given she was the one who put him in dresses to begin with. Ah well. It’s not like he’d let that stop him. She’s not here anyway.

‘You’re not afraid,’ the Chevalier replies, all but reading his thoughts again, ‘and as consequence, you’re the only interesting one in this whole room. Or you would be, if you weren’t permanently sat on the sidelines.’

He flushes, then realises it isn’t really a compliment. ‘I repeat: how can I possibly be on the sidelines dressed like this? I’m brother to the King of France. I couldn’t hide if I wanted to…and I don’t.’

The Chevalier inclines his head at him. It’s a gesture Louis often does when he thinks Philippe is being endearing and Philippe can’t help but frown lightly. The Chevalier doesn’t seem to notice. ‘You may be the belle of the ball, my dear, but that doesn’t mean you’re not on the sidelines.’

His frown deepens, ‘Are you patronising me?’

‘Ah…I…’

‘You are.’

He wavers, cheeks colouring slightly, ‘Not…intentionally. Just making a little light-hearted conversation…your Majesty.’

‘Hmm, then I suggest you learn to keep your humour in check,’ Philippe says flatly, looking away, ‘you’re young, clearly, so I’ll forgive it, but I know many others who would not. You could lose your tongue one day, if you’re not careful. Or worse, your head.’

The Chevalier is silent for a few minutes. To his surprise, Philippe finds himself checking that he hasn’t walked away. He hasn’t. Eventually, the Chevalier shakes his hair back and states, ‘I’d rather lose my head than my tongue. The loss of one’s head is sure to result in death, but a life without a tongue, and all it allows one to do, would hardly be worth living. My mother has always said I have the most beautiful singing voice, you know.’

Philippe glances at him from the corner of his eye, ‘Has she?’

He smirks, ‘No. I’m awful.’

Philippe finds himself laughing again. A merry sound this time, rather than an awkward one. Any tension between them dissolves instantly. His laughter disappears into the noise of party. The chatter of voices and clinking of glasses are almost drowned out by the music. It can be overwhelming at times, even for him, a Philippe finds himself secretly pleased for some intimate conversation. Or any conversation, for that matter. He hasn’t failed to notice that, despite their fondness for gossip, the nobles have decided to ignore him all night.

He is not being ignored now. The Chevalier meets his eye steadily. The corners of his mouth twitch again, ‘And what about you?’

‘Can I sing? Tolerably, yes, so I’ve been told.’

‘No. I mean, would you rather lose your head or your tongue?’

Philippe thinks about it for a moment. The Chevalier made a compelling argument. Decapitation would mean death, but the tongue is useful for a great many things. Speaking. Singing. Eating. Kissing. Recently experienced in the latter, Philippe flushes at the thought and quickly says, ‘neither. I’d rather lose a hand.’

His brow furrows, ‘That wasn’t one of the options. Head or tongue?’

‘Neither. A hand. Or, preferably, one finger. One nail.’

He almost sounds offended, ‘You can’t just change the rules.’

‘There were rules? And, why can’t I? I’m the Duc de Anjou, remember? Brother to the King of France,’ he says teasingly, ‘you’re just The Other Philippe.’

‘Now who is being childish?’ the Chevalier retorts, ‘I’m not that much your junior, your Highness, and I have a ‘de’ to.’

‘Yes. de Lorraine.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ He asks, eyes narrowed.

‘Oh, nothing,’ Philippe says lightly, ‘nothing at all. It’s tolerable.’

‘Tolerable?’ Now he is offended. He frowns sulkily, ‘I’ll have you know my father is Henri de Lorraine, youngest son of Charles I, Duc de Elbeuf.’

Philippe smiles sheepishly, ‘And I’ll have you know my father was King Louis XIII of France, eldest son of King Henri IV of France. Your point?’

A moment passes. The Chevalier rolls his eyes, ‘now I believe you’re patronising me.’

‘I’m afraid so, my dear,’ he says, unable to contain his smirk, ‘shall we call it even?’

For a moment, the Chevalier looks ready to argue, his lips pursed in contemplation and eyes darkening with a challenge. Philippe raises an eyebrow at him again. They hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds. The tension breaks. The Chevalier smirks and reaches for two full glasses of wine from the table in front of him, handing one to Philippe. He raises the other in a toast. ‘A truce.’

Philippe chuckles lightly as they tap the rims of their glasses together. He must admit he feels a certain level of fondness for the young Chevalier already. The others may treat him with respect to his face, but he isn’t half the fool to they imagine him to be. He knows they all ridicule him behind his back. They are doing now. Even his brother. It’s exhausting. There is, as startling as it first was, something refreshing about the Chevalier’s bluntness. It’s something, Philippe realises, that he could quickly become addicted to.

Curious, he takes a large sip of his wine and says, ‘Alright, humour me. How am I confined to the sidelines?’

The Chevalier shrugs again, ‘Look around you. Nearly everyone is dancing, the old, the young, and so they should. The music is especially good tonight. Do you dance?’

He might as well be asking ‘can you?’ 

Philippe nods, ‘Of course.’

‘Then, why aren’t you? You’re sitting here, drinking your wine, letting them gossip about you. You should be over there enjoying yourself!’

He scoffs, ‘in my experience, dancing tends to be more pleasurable when you have a partner.’

‘You can’t possibly be at a loss for partners? After all, you are the Duc de Anjou.’

‘Yes,’ Philippe says flatly ‘but I am the Duc de Anjou in…well…in a dress. Tonight, it seems, I’m too feminine for the ladies to dance with, too masculine for the men. That doesn’t leave me with many offers, does it?’

‘Not for all the women, believe me, and certainly not for all the men.’ The Chevalier replies with a suggestive quirk of his lips. It’s an expression Philippe has grown to recognise lately. The tell-tale signs of attraction. Or interest, at least. A year ago, Philippe wouldn’t have known what to do with it. His eyes have been opened to a great many things since then.

He attempts to suppress a smile, badly, ‘you’re not dancing either. By your definition, you are on the sidelines as much as I am.’

He waves a hand flippantly, ‘as you said, you need a partner to dance. I’m lacking one at current.’

‘So, you’re not tempted by anyone here, then?’ he asks, gesturing to the room.

‘On the contrary, I’m very tempted.’

‘By?’

The Chevalier smirks again, ‘you, mostly.’

Philippe starts, more taken aback by the young Chevalier’s boldness than his answer. He recovers himself quickly, smiles wryly and asks, ‘Are you? Really? Even dressed like this?

‘Dressed like this. Not dressed like this,’ he sits back in his chair, ‘or not dressed at all.’

‘A young man of many tastes, then.’ Philippe says, rearranging a loose strand of hair as though that can hide the blush he feels slowly creeping up his neck. The past year may have opened his eyes to the wonders of having a lover, but it hasn’t stopped his cheeks burning at a proposition. Especially when the man in question is as naturally charming as this one.

‘Mhm, many desires too.’

‘Is that so?’

‘It is,’ his smirk grows, ‘though at current, I only have one. To dance with you.’

Philippe lets out a laugh, ‘what?’

‘You heard me. Stop spending your life on the sidelines, Philippe, Duc de Anjou. You’ve found yourself a partner now, no excuses,’ he stands, extending his hand, ‘that dress is far too beautiful to not take it for a spin.’

He glances down at the Chevalier’s outstretched hand, suddenly hesitant. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps Philippe has been limiting himself. It’s one thing to wear a dress, it’s another to dance in it, for all to see. He very quickly taught himself not to care about the gossip. What other people thought about him was as insignificant the people themselves. And yet, he couldn’t help but hesitate, a mixture of excitement and uncertainty twisting in the pit of his stomach. He took another sip of his wine to settle it.

‘You're very forward, aren't you?’ Philippe asks, ‘very sure of yourself?’

He shrugs, ‘Is there a reason I shouldn't be?’

‘Not that I can see, no.’

‘The Chevalier smirks, ‘you should be too. Oh, come, don’t tell me you're afraid of looking the fool now. Dance with me?’

Philippe doesn’t know why but his smirk is far more reassuring than the wine could ever be.  
He mimics it, ‘I’m just afraid you’ll look like a fool. I mean, can you dance?’

‘Only one way to find out.’

He can’t argue with that. He places his wine glass on the table and slowly taking the Chevalier’s arm. His skin is still cool, despite the summer heat. It's both refreshing and exhilarating. Philippe rises to his feet. Almost instantly, he feels something shift in the room. As occupied as they may seem, he knows the nobles will be looking for anything they can gossip about over breakfast. But the Chevalier has a firm grip on his hand, and despite his age, he crosses the room with such confidence than Philippe barely notices the hurried murmur that passes through the crowds.

But it’s hard not to notice the abrupt way that the music stops. The dancers stumble over their feet, each of them bobbing their heads in ceremonial respect. Philippe ignores them. He keeps his eyes on the Chevalier as he takes a step back, joining the line of men. A moment passes in tense silence. The guests glance around uncertainty. Out of the corner of his eye, Philippe can see his brother watching him from his own seat. His expression isn’t quite disapproving, but Philippe already knows Louis will not like this. He doesn’t like anything that takes the attention off him for more than a moment. 

Philippe sighs. ‘Play,’ he says indignantly to the musicians, ‘this is a celebration, isn’t it? Or have you suddenly forgotten how to make music?’

They scramble for a second, fumbling with their instruments and the music starts again. The dancers hesitate. Philippe gives a woman to his right a questioning look. She manages a quick smile and resumes the dance. The others, reassured, follow in suit. It takes a moment but Philippe quickly finds his place.

As it turns out, the Chevalier can dance. He can't possibly have as much experience as half the nobles, but he moves with more grace than the lot of them combined. They weave around each other, following the carefully choreographed steps. Philippe keeps his eyes on the Chevalier throughout. In truth, he couldn't look elsewhere if he wanted to. The Chevalier holds his gaze with such intensity that Philippe doesn't think he’ll ever be able to look into another set of eyes again. He doesn't think he wants to. 

‘Tell me, how does it feel?’ The Chevalier murmurs as they brush past each other.

‘How does what feel?’

‘Stepping off the sidelines.’

Philippe smiles, ‘you were right,’ he replies quietly, ‘this dress is too beautiful to waste the opportunity...as are you.’

A second passes. The Chevalier pauses, then wraps his fingers around Philippe’s wrist, holding him close enough that Philippe feels the Chevalier’s breath against his face. His own breath catches in his throat. His heartbeat is racing at a speed he isn't sure his stallion could mirror; it's a giddy gallop, spurred on by nervousness and the excitement that comes from the thrill of breaking boundaries. It's not until the music changes and a murmur passes through the other dancers again that he realises they are standing, motionless, in the middle of the floor. Their eyes bore into his back like fishing hooks, hungry to reel in the hint of a rumour. 

To his own surprise, Philippe finds himself smirking. Suddenly, the idea that they are all going to waste their time gossiping over him is more amusing than upsetting. It’s oddly liberating. He twists his wrist so that his and the Chevalier’s hands are palm to palm. 

‘Outside?’ he whispers.

The Chevalier nods wordlessly. 

Philippe takes his hand, leading him through the crowds of people. The curious murmurs follow them through the ballroom and into the gardens. They keep walking through the flowers and the trees until the light of the palace is little more than a glimmer behind them.  
The sun has finally set and the moonlight casts a light glow over the gardens. It peaks through the leaves, light enough that Philippe can see the way the moonlight reflects off the Chevalier’s hair, but dark enough that it still grants them enough darkness that he knows that they’re too well concealed to be seen by potential prying eyes.

‘Sometimes one dance is enough, don’t you think?’ Philippe says as they come to a standstill under a large tree.

The Chevalier hums, ‘there are activities I’d rather be doing if I’m going to exert myself that much.’

‘Yes. Such as hunting.’

He smiles, ‘I’ve never had a taste for hunting myself. Why would I chase my meal on horseback when I can have someone else bring it to me in bed?’

‘For the sport of it?’

‘You play cards for the sport of it. Or flirt for the sport of it. Hunting is less about sport and more about conquest. There are things, people, I’d rather conquer.’

Philippe thinks about this for a moment, suddenly aware that he’s still holding the Chevalier’s hand. He swallows and asks, ‘and are you flirting with me for the sport of it?  
Or the conquest? A dance with the King’s brother must be quite a prize.’

‘Oh, grander than any stag, ’ he says amusedly, then shrugs, ‘but no. That’s not why I flirted with you,’ he pauses, licks his lips, and quietly adds, ‘I... I did it because I like you.’

He raises an eyebrow, though he feels a blush creeping up his neck again, ‘you don’t know me.’

‘And you don’t know me. Very few do, actually. One of the perks and hindrances of being young, I’d say. But you still danced with me. You’re still here, aren’t you?’

Once again, Philippe finds he can’t argue. The Chevalier is right. He’s alone, in the dark, with a stranger. Any number of horrors could happen now. But, somehow, Philippe knows they won’t. For some reason, he trusts the Chevalier as much he admires him.

Both trust and admiration increase as the Chevalier remarks, ‘you’ve been flirting with me too.’

Philippe laughs, ‘a little, yes. Guilty as charged.’

The Chevalier smiles and takes a step closer, reaching up with his free hand, touching a loose strand of Philippe’s hair lightly. Philippe feels his breath catch in his throat again, heart hammering. 

‘You're the beautiful one, you know that?’ the Chevalier murmurs, ‘someone should paint you.’

‘Well, someone has. It hangs in my house at Saint-Cloud.’

He licks his lower lip, ‘perhaps I could come and see it sometime.’

‘I’d...I’d like that.’

He licks his lip again, ‘and...and perhaps….perhaps I could kiss you?’

Philippe looks up at him, eyes wide. Earlier, he had been startled by the Chevalier’s boldness, now he’s taken aback by his hesitancy There’s a slight tremble in his voice. For the first time since they met, the Chevalier’s gaze is lowered, and even in the dark, Philippe can see the light blush creeping across his cheeks. He’s nervous. Philippe hadn’t though he was capable of feeling nervous. It’s sweet.

‘When you come see my portrait?’ Philippe asks, feigning innocence. 

The blush intensifies. ‘...well, yes...if you want...or…’

‘Or now?’

He exhales slowly, ‘...or now.’

Philippe smiles and tightens his grip on the Chevalier’s hand to reassure him. ‘I’d like that too.’

‘Really?’ The Chevalier asks, and he sounds so genuinely relieved that Philippe can’t help but beam at him.

‘Yes, really.’ he replies. He hesitates for half a second, then summons all the courage it took him to ask his mother’s ladies to help him into a dress tonight, and leans up to press his lips against the Chevalier’s.

Nerves instantly gone, the Chevalier reaches up to cup Philippe’s cheek in his hand. ‘Wait, you're sure this is alright?’ he mumbles between kisses.

‘Now you're telling me to be cautious?’ Philippe asks with an amused chuckle, ‘I thought you were all about taking risks and stepping off the sidelines.’

‘Well, yes. Dancing is one thing...kissing me is another.’

‘True, but both equally pleasurable.’

The Chevalier’s smile is as bright as a star in the dark. ‘I told you this would be a pleasurable encounter. So, you'll be staying off the sidelines, I take it?’ he asks, leaning to kiss Philippe again.

Philippe hums, ‘that depends.’

‘On?’

‘Whether or not you're there, of course.’

He tries to look nonchalant. The happiness in his voice gives him away. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he says, ‘there's another celebration tomorrow, isn't there? I'll see you then?’

Philippe smirks, ‘Well, The Other Philippe, how about we get through tonight first?'


End file.
